Harshini (44 page)

Damin Wolfblade and his army arrived at the Citadel within an hour of the appearance of the first of King Hablet’s Fardohnyans. The constant flow of messages delivered by the Dragon Riders between the Citadel, Hablet’s ships and Damin’s Warlords had allowed an unprecedented level of coordination. Their forces were in place, their strategy worked out to the finest detail, their victory almost a foregone conclusion long before the Citadel came into view.

The only thing that irked Damin as he rode out to meet his father-in-law was that Hablet had got here first.

Hablet proved to be a short, heavy-set man with a greying beard and a scowl that was reserved for the man who had run off with his daughter. Adrina had been left back at the camp, despite her protests. The Harshini had stepped in to aid him in restraining her, no more willing to let a pregnant woman near a battlefield than he was.

Hablet waited on a small rise overlooking the Karien army. The enemy was aware of their presence. One could hardly move an army this size in secret,
but they were milling about aimlessly. The Karien dukes were still hostages in the Citadel and their forces lacked any sound leadership.

Damin frowned as he saw Hablet sitting astride a magnificent black stallion, waiting for the High Prince to approach. It was deliberate, Damin was certain. Hablet wanted him to be the supplicant. With a quick glance at Narvell, who rode on his left, Damin bit back his annoyance and galloped forward.

“Your Majesty,” Damin said, with a slight bow as he reined in beside the king. His own stallion sidestepped nervously as he caught the scent of the King’s mount. The irony was not lost on Damin as he fought to keep the beast under control. Two territorial stallions, indeed.

“You’re Wolfblade, I suppose?”

“That’s very observant of you, Your Majesty.”

“Where’s my daughter?”

“She’s safe.”

“Married to you? That’s debateable.”

Damin suddenly grinned at the Fardohnyan king as he realised Hablet was more afraid of meeting him than he was of meeting Hablet. This man had tried to have him assassinated any number of times, and had been planning to invade his country until recently. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for Damin to have called him out for it the moment he laid eyes on him.

“Your Majesty, I’m sure you’ve a lot to say to Adrina and I
know
she has quite a bit to say to you. But let’s put aside our differences for the time being and do something about these Kariens, shall we?” He didn’t wait for Hablet to answer. “This is Narvell Hawksword, the Warlord of Elasapine. He’ll act as
my liaison. Once the battle is engaged the Harshini will be forced to withdraw, so I thought it might be easier this way. As my force is four times the size of yours, and includes a couple of thousand Defenders, we’ll be bearing the brunt of the attack, but any advice you offer will be welcome. If you wish to join us in the command tent, just let Lord Hawksword know, and he’ll have someone show you the way.”

Hablet sputtered something in Fardohnyan at Damin’s high-handed manner, but he didn’t wait to find out what it was. He wheeled his stallion around and galloped back towards his own lines, laughing at the look on the King of Fardohnya’s face.

Once the attack was sounded from the walls of the Citadel the gates opened, and rank upon rank of depressingly well-disciplined troops marched forth, followed by the Defender cavalry. As they formed up in front of the walls on the other side of the Saran River, Damin gave the signal to move forward. His advance forces were mostly mounted, and they moved onto the plain like a wall of impending death. He gave another signal and the Fardohnyan infantry moved in from the west.

And then they waited.

Shananara had insisted that the Kariens be given the opportunity to surrender. It was a condition of using her people to relay their messages back and forth between the Citadel and the armies coming to relieve them.

Damin took out his looking glass and focused on the Citadel as Tarja emerged through the main gate. Mounted beside him was a bearded Karien, one of
Jasnoff’s dukes, no doubt. Tarja let him take a long look at the forces arrayed against his men. The two men spoke at some length, the Karien gesticulating angrily, and then the duke wheeled his mount around and returned to the Citadel. Damin swung the looking glass up to the flagpole mounted over the gate. The white flag of truce was hastily pulled down and battle colours were raised in their place. A whoop of glee sounded along the Hythrun lines.

“It appears the Kariens aren’t planning to surrender, my Lord,” Damin remarked to Almodavar with a grin.

“What a shame, Your Highness,” Almodavar said insincerely.

“Then I suppose we’d better go and kill them all.”

“That would seem to be the only option left open to us, Your Highness.”

Damin glanced over his shoulder. “Have the Harshini withdrawn?”

“They’re clear of the field, Your Highness. They withdrew as soon as they saw the battle flags being raised.”

Damin nodded and passed his looking glass to an aide and unsheathed his sword. The sound of the Defender trumpets reached him faintly on the breeze and he raised his arm to lead his troops into battle.

The battle, once it got under way, was almost as bad as the one on the northern border. The Kariens were not acting under a coercion, but they were demoralised, hungry and leaderless. Their god was dead, their leaders held hostage in the enemy fortress. They put up a fight, certainly, but there was no need
for strategy. It reminded Damin of quelling the riot that had stormed the gates of Greenharbour during the siege. All they did—all they needed to do—was draw inexorably closer, pulling an ever-tighter circle of steel around the Kariens until there was no escape and no quarter given.

The knights put up the best fight. Their code of honour would allow them no other course of action, but even they fell eventually to the unstoppable advance. By the time Damin thought to look up, bloodied and exhausted, he was surprised to discover the sun high overhead. The ground behind him was littered with more bodies than he could count, and in the distance the Saran River ran red as the Defenders splashed through its shallow waters to meet their foes.

Looking about him and realising there was nobody left to fight, Damin rested his sword across his saddle and looked up at the Citadel. The fortress seemed to glow, even in the bright sunlight. The archers on the walls had stopped loosing their arrows, as the only men within reach now were their own troops.

Then he heard another trumpet blare out and saw the battle colours come down, replaced with the plain blue flag that they had agreed they would hoist in the case of victory.

A cheer rose from the field, muted but heartfelt. Damin surveyed the battlefield, feeling strangely let down. Like the battle on the northern border it had been as much a cattle cull as it was a decent war. The only enemy worth fighting these days, he realised, were probably the Defenders, and he’d allied himself with them. Maybe he should have stayed at home,
or planned to invade Medalon. Then at least he would have been guaranteed a decent fight.

“Your Highness? Prince Damin?”

He turned in his saddle to find a Defender riding towards him. “I’m Damin Wolfblade.”

The Defender saluted sharply. “Your Highness, the Lord Defender sends his compliments and requests that you join him in the Citadel.”

“Very well.”

“Would you happen to know where I could find the King of Fardohnya, sir?”

“Back that way,” Damin said, waving in the general direction of the command post some leagues distant. He was in no hurry to have Hablet join them in the Citadel. He wanted to speak to Tarja first. “He’s in the command tent.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, Lieutenant!”

“Your Highness?”

“Once you’ve delivered your message to King Hablet, could you ask Lord Hawksword to fetch my wife and bring her to the Citadel, too?”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

The Defender galloped off towards the command tent and Damin turned his stallion towards the Citadel.

“You look like hell,” Tarja announced by way of greeting.

Damin smiled wearily as he dismounted, handing his reins to a waiting cadet. The boy led the stallion away cautiously. “Well, some of us have been out fighting, you know, not sitting here in the Citadel
playing Lord Defender. How in the name of the gods did they talk you into accepting that job?”

Tarja grimaced. “It’s a long story. You’re wounded.”

Damin glanced down at his blood-soaked sleeve and poked at it curiously, then shrugged when he felt no pain. “Must be someone else’s blood. Any chance you can find me a clean shirt before Adrina gets here? I
will
be wounded if she sees me like this. I promised her I wouldn’t get involved in the fighting.”

“She didn’t really expect you to stay out of it, did she?”

“Who knows with Adrina,” he shrugged.

He followed Tarja up a broad set of sweeping steps to the front of an impressive building that looked vaguely like one of the temples in Greenharbour. Tarja pushed open the massive door and Damin stepped inside, gaping in wonder.

“The Temple of the Gods,” he whispered in awe.

“We prefer to call it the Great Hall,” Tarja said with a thin smile.

“I can’t believe you left it so untouched.”

“We didn’t. The Harshini queen rearranged things a bit when she got here.”

Damin grinned at Tarja. “That must have been hard for your poor little atheist heart to cope with. Will you introduce me to the queen?”

“Of course. She should be here soon.”

“And the demon child? I half expected her to be standing on the walls hurling lightning bolts into the enemy.”

Tarja’s face clouded. “R’shiel has been asleep for days now.”

“Asleep?”

“She says she destroyed Xaphista.”

“Yes, well that would take it out of you, wouldn’t it?” He slapped Tarja’s shoulder to remind him he was joking. “You said she was asleep? Not unconscious? What do the Harshini say about her?”

“They don’t seem to be worried.”

“Then neither should you.”

They walked the length of the Temple to where a long polished table had been set up in the shadow of the massive Seeing Stone. It would dwarf the one in Greenharbour. For a moment Damin wished he’d brought Kalan with him. She would have been awestruck to stand here in the fabled Harshini Temple of the Gods facing the Citadel’s Seeing Stone.

As they approached the table, the Defenders on guard snapped to attention. Tarja sent one of them to find Damin a clean shirt as he pulled at the laces on his leather breastplate and lifted it over his head.

“Have you got anything to drink, or is this going to be one of those long, boring
dry
affairs?”

Tarja smiled and ordered a Defender to bring wine. He came back with a carafe, two goblets and the clean shirt he’d requested. Damin drank the first one down without taking a breath, changed his shirt and then poured another drink down his throat, before collapsing into one of the high-backed chairs around the table.

“So, I take it we’re having this little chat in here to intimidate the Karien dukes?” he inquired as he poured himself another drink.

“That thought did cross my mind, yes.”

“Good idea. Where are they?”

“I want to wait until Hablet and Shananara get here before I let them in.”

Damin nodded approvingly. “You’re getting very good at this, aren’t you?”

“I suppose. How do you like being a High Prince?”

“I loathe it. I had to kill that Karien child a few weeks ago. He tried to poison R’shiel. I’ve never had to make a worse decision in my life.”

“R’shiel never mentioned it.”

“She wouldn’t. Not after Brak stepped in. Where is he, by the way? Watching over the demon child?”

“He’s dead.”

The news surprised Damin almost as much as Tarja’s obvious lack of remorse. “Well, that will make Adrina happy. She was planning to kill him herself.”

The doors opened at the far end of the Hall and a woman stepped through. At first, Damin thought it was R’shiel. As she drew closer and he saw her black eyes and her air of serene calm he knew it could only be the Harshini Queen. He jumped to his feet and bowed low as she approached.

“Your Majesty.”

“High Prince,” she replied graciously, then turned to Tarja. “I hope you don’t mind, Tarja, but I have sent my people out to help the wounded.”

“Of course I don’t mind, but won’t they be distressed roaming a battlefield?”

“We abhor violence, my Lord, but we abhor suffering even more. Don’t fear for my people. They are not as fragile as you think.”

“Tarja!”

The man who called out from the entrance of the Hall was Garet Warner, the commandant the
Sisterhood had sent to investigate the goings on when they were on the northern border. Tarja excused himself and hurried to speak to him and then walked back to the table. His expression was thoughtful.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’ve just received a bird from Yarnarrow. Jasnoff is dead. He killed himself the same day R’shiel claims she killed Xaphista.”

Shananara took the news stoically. “He ruled Karien by divine mandate. With Xaphista gone, so is his crown.”

“So who’s in charge now?”

“With Cratyn dead, the next in line is someone called Drendyn. He’s Jasnoff’s nephew. Apparently, we’re holding him here. He’s one of the dukes.”

“
Drendyn
?” Damin asked with a laugh. “Oh, Tarja, are you in for an interesting time! He’s a boy. And I can promise you he wasn’t raised to rule a nation the size of Karien.”

“Well, we’d better break it to him gently. I’m not sure how he’s going to take the news that he’s now their king.”

“If you want my advice, talk to him alone and leave the other dukes out of it. They’ll just try to manipulate him. Maybe, with a bit of guidance, we can mould him into a half-decent king.”

“It is not for you to manipulate other nations to suit your own purposes, Your Highness,” Shananara scolded.

“Actually it is, Your Majesty. We’ve just spent thousands of lives out there for no good reason. If we can take this boy and turn him into a king, one who thinks before he attacks, we’ll all benefit.”